For Ruth, the O.C., florid and pure

So,
there it was.
The endowment was bequested
(requested?)
to POETRY magazine.
The Eli Lilly widow’s 2003
was a banner year
for gifts, for life, for language,
and
you’ve felt a renewed hope for
your dead, dead
(Empty? Forsaken? Barren?)
Poetry. Poesy, posies…
You prey upon the culture
around you, within you, upon you
and you are Us. And
You are thus told, nay
commanded, commandeered, commended
to know about The O.C..
Newport. The lives of the rich
(Empty? Forsaken? Barren?)
in turn prey upon you.
And you love Seth Cohen. Desire
knows not these constraints,
these passionate ties
of 8 through 9pm on Thursdays.
They occur
religiously
regularly
gaily
gleefully
And you take a breath (deeply!). And
contain your desire, and
sit up in your couch, and
Grab your notepad.
Are you pretty sexy?
What sort of knickers are you wearing?
These are not lines that Seth would ask of you.
He listens not to you, but he reads
and, verbally, you smile upon him (deeply!)
And the theme music begins. This
Means you are the Winter to his
Summer.
Actually, I’ve never seen The O.C.; I’m sure it’s pretty good.
The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.
Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, which may or may not avoid both iambic pentameter and high-school caliber angst.